Like Reading a Book
by The Almighty Cheez It
Summary: Sometimes, being thrust into a previous era is a lot like reading a book; no matter how well you think you are following the storyline, you can never quite know how it will end.
1. Prologue

After four or so years of hiatus, I am back and, as I'd like to think, better than ever. Despite the atrocity that is my last chaptered fic (Someday Sunny Skies), I have decided to leave it up for you loyal readers to enjoy, and for me to look back on and reminisce. Nonetheless, I've started a new work. Here we go.

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><p>There was a radiant crescent out that night, shining over the suburban neighborhood below. There seemed to be an outage of lights in the small village, for even the street lights were the same color as the midnight-hued sky. Through the wooden-rimmed windows, one could see the silhouettes of sleeping civilians, hidden beneath wool blankets that winter night, lost in a world of their own unconscious fantasies. After all, what sort of person would be awake at this time of night, roaming the eerily quiet streets in the middle of a power surge? One that had, coincidentally, occurred seconds after the final citizen had succumbed to the tempting offer of sleep? Nobody <em>normal<em>, of course.

But as there are in every 'perfect' suburban town, there is an oddball. A person who wouldn't be considered normal, nor would they be greeted warmly by the other residents of these pristine white houses. The residents of Spring Falls Drive would certainly deny that they knew anything about their community's single abnormality. It was the corner house, number 54. Unlike the perfectly green lawns of its sister houses, number 54 had yellowing grass, with clumps missing and revealing unattractive dirt. Number 54 Spring Falls Drive was losing the rich white quality of its paint, instead turning an angry shade of light grey. The roof seemed to have cracks, and the porch was covered in cobwebs. The civilians thought that nobody lived in a house that had once had such great quality, and they deliberately sniffed and held their chins high as they passed. Mrs. Number 72 could be seen whispering to Mrs. Number 48, _"Oh, what a shame that the contractors won't let us fix up this place. We'll never find a suitable neighbor if it looks like this, oh no."_

What Mrs. Number 72, and the rest of the Spring Falls Drive residents didn't know, was that someone did live there. The disgusting old house was only in such a state because its single resident lived there only twice during the year: the month of July, and the two weeks that students normally get off of school for winter break. If anyone had paid attention, they would see a shadow through the curtained window, a shadow of a man who looked no younger than one hundred years old, which of course was ridiculous to think about. Nobody lived to the age of one hundred; at least, nobody with physical capabilities as proficient as this man's. He would roam the hallways of Number 54 at night, when darkness fell and people were lost in their dream worlds, in the world of unconsciousness. Only then would he come out into the open.

It was then, at two o'clock in the morning on January first, as the year morphed into the wondrous year two thousand, that he closed the front door of his run-down property, knowing that it would be the last time he would ever do so. He wouldn't even be returning come July. No, he knew it was finally time to do what his closest friends had instructed him to do. And once he completed this task, he knew that his time would finally come to an end. He wasn't scared. Those like him never got scared. They simply accepted their task for what it was, fulfilled what was required of them, and succumbed to the seduction of death. His time would come in a matter of days, and he knew it. He turned, and checked to make sure nobody could see him, even though he knew it wouldn't matter. Grabbing a fistful of his dark violet robes, he spun in a full circle before disappearing with a _pop_.

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><p>A vague prologue marks the beginning of a new story, since I have been a bit ~evasive for the last few years. Last time I wrote something, I was a freshman in high school. I am now about to be a sophomore in college. Oh, how time flies!<p> 


	2. Chapter 1

"Happy New Year!"

Noisemakers could be heard all around the courtyard, the events of three years previous forgotten, for once, as they celebrated the arrival of the year two thousand. The big two-triple-oh. It was amazing that after all that had happened, they had made it this far, but it was an accomplishment that the three of them wished had gained a little less publicity. Never again would they be students of Hogwarts, though when they thought about it, they never really were. A student, in their opinion, signified the learning process of a child, someone who was gaining knowledge from an adult, a superior. They had never been children. Not after they turned eleven, at least. They had even been deprived of their last year of schooling, but they were immediately rewarded with enough propositions that finishing their education seemed unimportant for the three that wanted to move on with life.

But these thoughts were completely out of their heads as they hugged and exchanged kisses on the cheek, wine glasses positioned carefully in their hands as they all watched the fireworks erupt into the cloudy night sky. No stars could be seen behind the thick grey of the clouds; all they could make out was the thin crescent of an extraordinarily bright moon.

From their position on the grounds of Hogsmeade, the three friends had a perfect view of the firework show, even though it was coming from the school grounds. Each year, the new year celebrations got wilder and wilder, and it felt great being a little crazy after the tension of a lifelong war. Smiles could be seen on their faces more often, and more prominently. They weren't stuck in a throng of unhappiness, and although they couldn't exactly be normal, they were content in the presence of each other.

"George did a great job on these, mate," said the youngest of the three appreciatively, his black hair sticking up in the most ridiculous places as his turned his luminescent green eyes on the boy next to him.

"If there's anything he can do well, it's charms," agreed the female, staring at the sky where the firework finale had taken place. "I don't know what charm he could have used to produce such dexterous results."

The two boys rolled their eyes at her large vocabulary, seeing that three glasses of wine had obviously done nothing to affect her bookish ways. The annoyance was all in good fun, of course – as were the swats she 'rewarded' them with. The three had been friends since they started school together, and their bond was amazingly strong. After all they had been through with each other, they were fairly certain that nothing could tear them apart.

"Yes, and that's why you teach Potions, not Charms, Hermione," said the redheaded boy, staring at her admiringly despite his joking words. At the age of twenty (and in her case, twenty-one), only Harry had found a lifelong partner, if the band on his left ring finger was any indication. His relationship with Ginny had flared after she left school, and they immediately married after her graduation, not wanting to regret not doing so if any remaining Death Eaters got hold of either of them. Hermione, however, had ended her relationship with Ron after a measly month with him, deciding that she would focus on her career rather than a romantic companion. Ron had never given up hope, not even three years later when she showed no signs of withdrawing her decision.

Hermione smiled affectionately at him, though not the sort of affection he wished he could get from her. He knew she was dedicated to teaching the kids at Hogwarts – especially since this was her first year doing so – but he couldn't shake off the urge to kiss her one last time. Though he was content in his job as a curse breaker at Gringott's, he longed to have a wife and produce a family. Harry and Ginny, happily married, had decided to wait a few more years before having children, especially since both were happy in their jobs. Ginny was a writer for The Quibbler, the most popular magazine of the age. Harry, despite his vehement protests of working at the Ministry, had taken a surprising post as an Unspeakable. His wish to be an Auror died along with Voldemort, and he no longer wished to have anything to do with Dark wizards. In more precise terms, he had grumbled one evening over rice pudding, "If anything happens that's bigger than this last war, just lock me in my room and keep me out of it!" His explanation for becoming an Unspeakable, when his wife and best friends asked, was due to the fact that nobody knew anything about him. He had 'received enough publicity for six lifetimes, thanks', and wanted a job where nobody could delve any further into his life. Hermione was happy to see him happy, even if he was a bit cranky at times.

The three friends walked back to the castle (Ginny was out with Luna and Parvati, her closest friends), arms linked and smiles lingering over their lips. Though it was custom for Hogwarts teachers to celebrate the holiday in the teachers' lounge or on the grounds, Hermione snuck off to see her two best friends, away from all the staff and students staying for the holidays.

"Happy New Year, Ron, Hermione."

She decided that she would do it every year, for them to be able to bond and cherish those few moments of their past where they had had nothing but innocent bliss with each other.

"Happy New Year, Harry."

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><p>Her lips curled in amusement at the familiar scrawl on the parchment. Harry's letters always amused her, and she always loved a chance to respond. However, now was not one of those times, as her fifth year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were about to come for class. Teaching Potions was definitely a great choice of hers; she had always thought that if she were to teach at Hogwarts, she would take over the Arithmancy or Defense position, never thinking that she could replace the infamous Severus Snape. When he died, though, and was replaced by a paranoid, over-emotional Slughorn, she knew she had to come and save the students. After all, she was the only one who could even attempt to compare to Professor Snape's greatness, and when she received a letter (though the handwriting didn't look like Headmistress McGonagall's) asking to take over the position – due to a mysterious accident ending Slughorn's life – she had readily agreed. It beat working in an office, that was for sure.<p>

She smiled as the fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds entered her classroom. She had a lesson plan already formed in her head, and she was excited for this particular lesson. When Professor Snape had taught it to her, she had been enthusiastic but not enticed, due to his way of distributing the lesson. As much as she respected her predecessor, she intended to be a much livelier teacher.

"Good morning, students."

"Good morning, Professor Granger."

Hermione smiled. These students were just young enough to recognize her from school. Had she participated in her seventh year of schooling, she would have seen these children as second years, so for her sixth year she had witnessed their sorting.

"Today, I have a very exciting lesson planned. Has anyone ever heard of the Elixir of Light?" One timid hand went up, and Hermione smiled down at Patricia Simms encouragingly. The Ravenclaw was like a mental carbon copy of Hermione; eager, intelligent, observant. She would have made a great warrior had she been older, and the second the thought entered Hermione's mind, she scolded herself. "Alright, does anyone know what the Elixir of Light is, or what it is used for?" Hermione looked down at Patricia expectantly, but it was the hand of a Hufflepuff boy that caught her attention. "Yes, Mr. Hepburn?"

The boy blushed, obviously thinking that she wasn't going to actually _call on him_, but shook his head nonetheless and said in a shy voice, "Does it – erm – physically diminish all traces of darkness, like those from a dark curse, from a person?" His voice steadily grew stronger as he spoke, and Hermione's eyes lit up with pride.

"Very good!" she said proudly. "Ten points to Hufflepuff." Hepburn blushed again, but when the girl next to him patted him on the back, he seemed to stick out his chest with slightly more confidence.

As the lesson progressed, Hermione explained that they weren't going to actually brew the Elixir of Light, because it was a fairly new potion – created the year before – and they were simply going to research it for a few days before moving on to another concept. She didn't dare teach her students such a powerful breach of magic, at least not anyone younger than their seventh year. And even then, she was saving that lesson for the end of the year, when they were leaving the confines and security of school to become real adults.

As her fifth years filed out, Hermione acknowledged that it was time for lunch. She had had a big breakfast, though, and decided to skip lunch in favor of some research for next week's sixth year class. She walked behind her desk, heading for the tall, wooden bookshelf that held all her favorite volumes, locked with a spell that could only be opened by her hand. She quickly unlocked it, scanning the tomes for a text about Amortentia. She was planning on presenting it to her sixth years, but as was her custom, she wanted to provide a bit of background information. That was odd, though; she didn't seem to have her text with her.

Shrugging, she figured she could simply head down to Professor Binns' classroom. The ghost never attended meals, and if he was too thick to realize that he was a ghost, then he would certainly be too thick to ask why she wanted an ancient tome about the strongest love potion. That could, after all, cause some awkward questions.

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><p>He sat in the horrendous orange armchair that stood by the stairs, his eyes fixated on the closed door. Thoughts were overcoming his mind; none of fear about the time that was coming, but thoughts of distress nonetheless. He knew why he had done it, why it was necessary, but that didn't make him feel any more comfortable. The only consolation was knowing that everyone assumed Horace Slughorn's death was an accident. Nobody would, of course, investigate him personally, but he was glad to see that nobody would be falsely accused of killing Hogwarts' least potent Potions Master. And he would definitely know how potent each and every one of Hogwarts' Potions Masters were. Although, looking back, killing the walrus had been ridiculously easy. Slughorn trusted anyone if they claimed to have great connections with people who mattered, and pretending to be Wizzet Gismo, the 'famous Seer from Asia' had been a piece of cake. There was no Wizzet Gismo, but Slughorn didn't know that. All he had to do was spout out some ridiculous story about Slughorn's supposed future, and he had shared a firewhiskey or two with the old codger. Slipping in some rat poison hadn't been hard when Slughorn had excused himself to use the loo, and ten minutes after he had told Slughorn some of the things he could 'see', the man would never even have a future again.<p>

Sure, he felt guilty. What normal person wouldn't, after committing such a heartless crime so easily? It wasn't the first time he had killed, but it was the first time he had done it to someone who was against the Dark side. But, he reasoned with himself, it was completely necessary. He had to get Hermione Granger to teach at Hogwarts. It was crucial, it was a matter of the utmost importance. He had strict orders from his three – _four_, he admitted grudgingly – instructors, and he had every intention of completing their request. He knew how important it was. He smirked slightly, remembering her eager response to his forged letter. She had responded not even an hour after he had owled her. He used a school owl, and tried his best to write like the Headmistress would. She didn't seem suspicious, to his imminent relief.

There was a knock on the door, and he quickly transformed. After doing so, he sat at his desk, silvery hands folded together. He pulled himself together quickly, adopting a lost, bored expression on his face. With a swish of his hand, notes from the last class period appeared on the board and he was ready. "Come in," he droned, the tone of his voice feeling hollow. But he was used to it by now.

The door slowly creaked open, and there she was, the girl that he had just been thinking about. He refrained from smiling, but found himself frowning again. Her arrival had just made things a lot easier for him, since he wasn't sure how he was going to corner her. At the same time though, he knew that tonight would be the night where he was disposed of. After so long…

"Hello, professor," she said cheerfully, quite the contrast to his own lifeless voice. She smiled, but he had to pretend that he didn't see it. After all, that was what he was best at, manipulating people. Lying. And it killed him. Balthazar H. Binns was a fraud, and even Dumbledore didn't know it. Neither did Armando Dippet, or Phineas Nigellus Black, or any of the previous Headmasters since Balthazar was a part of Hogwarts school.

"Good evening, Professor Grayhenge," he said dully, looking past her to the notes on the board as though he were truly focused on them. The morning sunshine poured through the window exuberantly, and he hated people thinking he was an unobservant sod. And faking names all the time was torture. He couldn't even count all the times he had almost called Harry Potter by his real last name, instead of some other 'P' name. Perkins, Porter, and Parker could only be used so many times in a span of seven – well, six – years.

She spoke again. "Erm, good morning," she said uncomfortably, probably because she didn't want to just humor him. Balthazar held back a smirk. "I was wondering if you have any books on the history of Amortentia, Professor? I need to know, for next week's lesson."

Balthazar did have such a book, and he nodded in a falsely absent-minded way. Floating away from his desk and chair, he beckoned with a silent hand for Hermione to follow him up the stairs of the classroom that led into his office. He saw her bewildered face out of the corner of his eye, and almost laughed. The poor girl had no idea that innocent old Professor Binns ever migrated away from his desk. He watched her climb up the stairs, putting one leg in front of the other, and hating how he couldn't do that in anyone's company. Not even the house-elves. He didn't bother summoning them for food; he didn't need it.

"Over there, Professor Grungy." He pointed to a book on a shelf, since he couldn't pull it down himself in his transparent state. As Hermione pulled it down, she whispered a few soft words of gratitude and hurried out his office door. He watched her for a few seconds, before coming to his senses and realizing that this was quite possibly the only chance he would get in a very long time to confront her. He shifted back to his regular, solid state, took a deep breath, and called her back.

"Professor Granger!"

Perhaps it was the fact that he had said her name correctly that made the poor girl stop in her tracks, but she turned around, book clutched tightly in her hand as though she thought someone would steal it in his own classroom, and let her jaw drop as she drunk in the sight of the school's only ghost professor as a solid human being.

"Where – where is Professor Binns?" she asked, her voice not quite as steady as she probably would have liked. Balthazar sighed. He knew that she probably wouldn't just accept the fact that he wasn't a ghost just by seeing the proof, but that didn't mean that he was eagerly awaiting the conversation that was to come. Why had he been left with the mission? He hated confronting people, but he had waited so long for this moment that he wasn't going to pass it up.

"I am Professor Binns," he said honestly, and his voice was much stronger than the professor that droned on in the classroom. She must have agreed, if the disbelieving look on her face said anything to him. "Well, actually, I am Professor Balthazar H. Dinger Hartford Fredson Puckle Gellson Mortévo Laverne Jenkins Wyatt Binns," he corrected, knowing this was doing nothing for the girl's patience. To her credit, she wasn't crying or screaming or breaking things or accusing him of lying; she seemed to be digesting the fact that Professor Binns wasn't really a ghost. He would have been shocked too, if he hadn't seen more amazing things in his one thousand years of existence.

"What's the H for?" she asked after a pregnant silence, and Balthazar chuckled at her question, glad that his mission involved someone without an extremely sensitive personality.

"Hogwarts," he shrugged, quickly conjuring a chair as her knees buckled. She probably would have looked gratified, if she wasn't paler than the sun outside. He wondered what her interpretation of that would be. Balthazar Hogwarts Binns. Due to the whole being alive for a thousand years thing, who better to teach History of Magic than himself? She didn't know his age yet, but she would. And when he told her, he was prepared to conjure up a wet washrag for her too.

"Hog – _no_– Hogwarts?" she repeated weakly, her regained confidence faltering as the wheels turned in her head regarding the significance of this entire ordeal. "Were you, perhaps, named after the school?"

The hopefulness in her voice broke Balthazar's heart, or what was left of it after one thousand years. He shook his head, about to place a comforting hand on her knee before he realized that such a gesture would probably frighten her even more. "The school was named after _me_." And he handed the damp washrag to her, in case she needed it. It never hurt to be prepared.

Hermione stared at the proffered washrag blankly, processing his words, before shaking her head resolutely. Her disbelief seemed to be replaced by anger and indignation, two emotions which Balthazar had predicted but not looked forward to. A sharp intake of breath was all the warning he had before Hermione began to lash out at him.

"That would mean you're over one thousand years old!" she pointed out, and it was an undeniable truth. "Magical beings may get old, Binns, but they don't get _that _old. That doesn't explain how you're a ghost and a human, and quite frankly I don't believe that you could have gotten away with this little scheme for so long. Why are you trying to screw up my head? Is this because I took your precious book?" Her voice dripped with sarcasm. "If you want your stupid tome back, you can take it." She actually threw the book at him, and he barely mumbled an 'ow' before she continued, not even realizing her own abuse of the book. "I SAID TAKE IT!" she bellowed, louder than Balthazar would ever guess her little form was capable of. She was livid, and he felt terrible about what he had to do. He only hoped she would be willing to do it.

"Hermione, please," he said, hating that he was reduced to begging just because of the stubbornness of a twenty-year-old female. Well, a twenty-year-old female who was crucial in preventing everything that had happened over the last thirty years, that is. This didn't console Balthazar. "If you'll hear me out, and you still don't want to believe me, then I'll let you throw books at me." The last part was said with a slight scowl and a rubbing on his face where she had hit him. Her blush was apology enough, and figured that she was inviting him to continue.

He took a deep breath, avoiding her eyes as he began his tale. "Do you remember what I told you in your second year, Hermione?" He could only hope she knew what he was referring to.

She did. With perfect citation, she repeated his words from over seven years ago. "_You all know, of course, that Hogwarts was founded over a thousand years ago - the precise date is uncertain - by the four greatest witches and wizards of the age. They built this castle together, far from prying Muggle eyes, for it was an age when magic was feared by common people, and witches and wizards suffered much persecution."_

Balthazar marveled at the witch's memory. He only remembered such a thing because he was used to memorizing things for hundreds of years at a time. Nodding to indicate that she was indeed correct, he continued. "I grew up with Helga, Rowena, Salazar, and Gryffindor." He spat the fourth name in contempt, before shaking his head and moving forward. "In fact, I knew the three – erm – four of them so well, that they named the school after me." Even he could hear how unrealistic his story sounded. With a hint of dread at the thought that Hermione would think he was telling tall tales, he continued.

"I had two older brothers and a little sister. I loved my little sister above anybody else. I cherished her, and she cherished me. My sister was Helga Hufflepuff." Talking about this wasn't as easy as he thought; it had been a thousand years, yes, but three of these people were the most important ones in his life and he was here while they had died long ago. "Before you say that our last names aren't the same, and therefore we can't be siblings, she was married. Helga married a man named Hector Hufflepuff. I was the best man at their wedding."

A smile appeared on his face as he remembered the memory, and the look on Hermione's face was one of sympathy. She seemed to be on the path of believing him already, which was fantastic. She knew from experience how hard it was to lose one's most important people, and having to go without those people for over a thousand years had to have been torture.

Finishing his moment of sentimentality, Balthazar cleared his throat. "Rowena…" His eyes glazed over, and Hermione ironically handed him the wet washrag. He took it, chuckling slightly. "Rowena was my wife. We married shortly before Hogwarts was created, and Helga, her best friend, was our maid of honor. We had a son. Marcel was one hundred and sixteen when he died, and I was so proud to be able to have seen him live his life fully. Though, his death, after Rowena's, was terrible. She died of a broken heart, because I had to leave. I had to leave to complete the mission, I – I loved her so much, Hermione. I still do. I haven't been with a woman since." This was utterly ridiculous, since he was alive for so long. But he loved Rowena that much, and Hermione could appreciate that.

"Then Salazar…" He stopped at the look of disgust on his much younger companion's face. He could easily interpret her expression. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he said pleadingly, "Hermione, don't judge Salazar for Tom Riddle's mistakes. Salazar made some bad decisions, like creating the chamber, and he had some strong opinions about Muggles. But remember what age we all lived in. Magical beings were detested and killed for being what they were. Salazar was angered by that. I have long since forgiven him for his mistakes."

Hermione sighed; she knew the whole deal with redemption. She had thought Professor Snape was a traitor, but had readily forgiven him as she learned about the true man that he was. She had forgiven Draco Malfoy for his mistakes as well. Hermione knew about forgiveness. She nodded, even as it was a somewhat painful gesture for her to fathom, even as her mouth was dry, even as she wanted to wake up from this ludicrous dream.

"Anyhow," Balthazar continued, at her nod, "Salazar was – he was my best friend. You and Potter? Try that tenfold. I loved Helga, I loved Rowena, but Salazar … our bond was absolutely indescribable."

Hermione smiled at the reminiscent light in Balthazar's eyes, and stood up to engulf the old man in a hug. She realized – unlike Harry or Ron in this situation – how hard it truly was for him to talk about his past to her. She could appreciate that he missed his companions dearly. But one thought lingered in her mind. He hadn't said anything about Gryffindor.

"And Godric?" she asked, hesitant to break the thick silence. She almost regretted it; Balthazar's face contorted into one of pure, unadulterated loathing.

"Listen to me, Hermione," he said angrily. "I have nothing against you, or Potter, or Potter's dad, or any other student who was ever sorted into that house. But Godric Gryffindor … he killed Salazar." Balthazar punched the side of the chair, a single angry tear tracking down his face. "I got along with him fine, the five of us were great friends, but Merlin! When Gryffindor and Salazar got into the argument, Salazar left the school. Within a year, Gryffindor tracked him down and murdered him. He bloody murdered my best friend! This was after I had learned my mission, after Rowena had died, after Helga had moved to Ireland or someplace with her husband. This was when it was me and Salazar and Gryffindor left. After that, I – I killed him. I couldn't take it, I was naïve, I killed him, he who killed my best friend."

The anguish in his voice cut through Hermione's heart, and she reached over and hugged him again. He let loose, and finally, after what was literally a thousand years without mourning for his loved ones, he cried on Hermione's shoulder, ignoring her soothing words as he let out a millennium's worth of emotions.

After he composed himself and apologized about sixteen times, she ventured another question. She was still dumbstruck about this entire situation, even if she now believed him, and questions were swarming her mind. "So you're immortal? How is that possible, unless – did you use Horcruxes? Why do you have ten last names? What is this mission? Why are you telling me? How did you get away with it?"

She paused there to inhale breath and before she could rant even further, Balthazar used a hand to indicate that he was going to speak. "Firstly, I think it'd be prudent to address your immortality question. Yes, I am immortal. I am an _Absentis Amoveo__, _which means 'mission shifter' in Latin." Hermione wondered why everything in the wizarding world translated to Latin and idly thought that she should learn the language. "I am one of three _Absentis Amoveo _in all of Wizarding history. I would know, after all." They both grinned at that.

"_Absentis Amoveo _only exist if one has a mission to complete, but my immortality occurs because my mission was to be completed over a century after my present time. In the instance of a mission being accomplished within a normal lifespan, one does not need these powers. Obviously, I did. So, no, I do not use Horcruxes and I swear to Merlin that I never will. We are not told what are mission is, we don't even know that we are Absentis Amoveo until we are basically supposed to die, and then stay alive. We only know what our mission is once it is supposed to take place, so I didn't know about my mission until last week. I'll tell you, it was a very suspenseful thousand years." Another grin. "Anyway, Absentis Amoveoare given the power to shape-shift into ghosts whenever they please, to keep up the pretense of being dead after a hundred or so years, since that's usually around the time of a wizarding death. I have ten last names because I had no desire to stay in ghost form for my whole life, and it would have been suspicious if there was a Balthazar Binns for a thousand years. So I made up a new alias every hundred years, going back to Binns for this century."

While that explanation had been thorough enough to satisfy Hermione's curiosity, they both knew what question hung in the air.

_What is the mission?_

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><p>Intriguing, I hope! Not to fear – things become clearer very soon. I hope I can avoid the clichés in these upcoming chapters, but I have faith. Stay tuned and review!<p> 


	3. Chapter 2

Sometimes when the skies were dreary outside, desolate with heavy clouds and stormy weather, it could be said that some of the best memories were made. Memories of joy and laughter, flinging knights to E-7, reading romance novels under the disguise of an old tomb, surrounding oneself with friends; those were the sort of memories that were often made on the days with the most discouraging weather.

Today was very clearly not one of those days, because Hermione was positioned a few meters from where Professor Binns – no, Balthazar – stood, corporeal and not hidden beneath the shadow of misty silver, ready to faint from the levity of this unbelievable conversation. Her head was thudding and her heart was pounding. Not to mention, the suspense in the air could have been cut with a butter knife, or a steak knife, or any sort of knife. The awkwardness she felt at that moment reddened her cheeks and quickened her breathing.

"I shouldn't have to ask," she spoke at last, her voice quivering, her hand searching for something to grasp, something that would prevent her from falling.

Balthazar shut his eyes tightly, causing an unpleasant crease in his forehead. When he reopened his eyes a moment later, their brightness, so different from the grey she was used to (and that she was sure she'd never given a second thought), sent Hermione into shock. As her knees gave way and she tumbled toward the floor, Balthazar gasped and sped over to her, catching her a moment before she would have hit the ground. Mumbling a weak _enervate_ that nonetheless got the job done, he seated her at one of the student desks in the room, and sighed loudly, not sure how to begin yet another difficult conversation.

"I'm sorry, I hope you're alright," he began needlessly. She was staring at him. He continued. "I don't know quite where to begin, Hermione –"

"Please, just spit it out, Professor," she urged, maintaining an admirable politeness despite the situation.

Another sigh. "Hermione, you must kill Tom Riddle."

Silence. A terrible, wonderful silence illuminated the space between them, as Hermione blinked repeatedly, and Balthazar fiddled with a button on his robes. The silence lasted days, hours, minutes – it lasted a few seconds – before Hermione burst into a humorless laugh. She found nothing funny.

"Harry murdered Lord Voldemort three years ago, Professor. Considering your subject of expertise, I'd have thought you would know this."

Balthazar gripped the bridge of his nose, avoiding her eyes. "I didn't say Lord Voldemort, Hermione."

There was a noise that sounded like a mutinous cross between a dying kitten and a desperately hungry bear. It was not quite a growl, nor a whimper. It was an indescribable noise, quite fitting because of the indescribable frustration she felt.

"I don't understand. I'm admitting that right here and now. This is ridiculous." She cringed at the shake in her own voice, but she was dangerously close to a fresh batch of tears.

Balthazar sat himself down, finally studying her and crossing and uncrossing his legs, a nervous habit he had forgotten about while he spent centuries as a ghost. "Lord Voldemort has been vanquished, as everybody knows," he began steadily. His voice sounded much more controlled than he felt. "However, there are still some who are not quite satisfied with that result. There are… some select individuals who have formed a band of sorts. They have a desire to avenge their fallen master and have devised intricate plans to ruin your friend Harry's life. And with that plan would come destroying yours, and Mr. Weasley's, and Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom's, and I believe you see my point."

Hermione sat at the student desk, her jaw unattractively hanging open, her lips chapped and her eyes wet. "Voldemort's followers went to Azkaban. They're under constant surveillance. I don't understand."

It was not an easy feat for Hermione Granger to admit ignorance, but she was at a loss of logic at the present moment. Balthazar, for all of his preposterous allegations, was at least very helpful with providing explanations for her inquiries.

"Despite their recent incarceration, the Pureblood families have always exercised great influence. And there will always be those who are unsatisfied with the current politics of wizarding society, Hermione. Several prisoners have used their influence to reach out to civilians who in turn have planned the demise of all this happy-go-lucky peace that we've had for the last three years. Quite obviously, nobody is in a right state to handle another war. This plan needs to be stopped before it can be executed."

Biting her lip for a moment as she processed his words, Hermione couldn't help but be unable to connect the dots. "Alright, so maybe this is all really happening, and I'm not experiencing a very realistic night terror, but how does this relate to killing Tom Riddle? Who, as I've already pointed out, has grown into Voldemort and then died?"

This was the tricky part. Balthazar could introduce a multitude of life-changing facts to this girl – no, this woman – before him, this woman who had endured so much and was finally beginning to be happy. He would never understand why it was his responsibility to be the bearer of bad news, why his instructors had somehow found a way to inflict this onto his shoulders. He watched her as she watched him, her eyes glistening, her mouth parted, her hair frizzing with the stress inside of her head. He felt bad for her, a sensation that was quite interesting considering his lack of empathetic feelings in most situations. But as he had been forced to stay alive for one thousand years, hiding behind multiple identities, against his will, he felt for Hermione Granger because she too would be forced to complete this mission. And Balthazar knew that it would be against her will. A deep breath.

"I believe you are familiar with the workings of time-travel, Hermione?"

Her skin paled at least one more shade, a respectable feat all things considered, and she jumped up out of her seat, accidentally banging her knee against the chair but paying no notice. "Absolutely not!" she all but yelled, and Balthazar knew she was not answering his question.

"Hermione –"

"With all due respect, Professor, I quite like spending quality time with my friends without Death Eaters shooting curses at our backs." Her tone was cold, and Balthazar shivered. "How you can expect me to turn around and completely regress back into that turmoil again, without my friends, without any kind of knowledge of what the bloody hell is even going on, I can't even fathom. With a task of killing Tom Riddle, no less! I refuse to be chucked back into the forties to complete a task regarding a man who has already been killed! How do you even have all of this knowledge, anyway? I don't understand!"

She had never admitted not understanding something so many times in one sitting, but by the time she finished her miniature rant she was flushed and panting quite hard, staring right through Balthazar as though he was still the ghostly Professor Binns.

"Every _Absentis Amoveo_ has an instructor, or several instructors, who can and do die, but who oversee the mission from their place beyond the living. Even I am not quite sure how it works, but I do know that the founders of Hogwarts, my instructors, have placed this mission upon me, and thus, upon you. Lord Voldemort is the most powerful and terrible wizard that our world has ever been at war with, and as such, he has been the biggest disruption thus far in history to the normal functioning of wizardkind. And now we have discovered that Lord Voldemort's legacy continues even post-mortem, a fact which I only just discovered and recognized as the mission that has kept me 'alive' (for lack of a better term, dear) for this past millennium and the only way to completely obliterate his destruction is to eliminate him before he is a problem."

"So, because I have been randomly chosen for this impossible mission, I have to leave everything behind, travel back to the forties, and kill Tom Riddle? Is that right?"

Her sarcasm was not helping Balthazar's migraine, but he could not find it in himself to blame her.

"Almost, Hermione. There is no miscellaneous finger that pointed at you to complete this job, see. You too are an Absentis Amoveo, isn't that wonderful?" Perhaps he, too, should cut back on the sarcastic remarks. "You may very well refuse this mission, dear, but then you will simply oversee the damage and live an endless life, much like me, until a day comes where you decide to end your own misery and go back."

Then, because he understood the truly heartbreaking reality that was dished out in front of the unsuspecting Hermione Granger, he whispered very solemnly, "I am sorry, Hermione."

* * *

><p>Later that night, as Balthazar stepped out of his bath and into his dressing gown, he sat on the edge of his bed, smiling dimly into the night. He fluffed his pillow, kicked off his slippers, and fell underneath the haven of his bedsheets. Effortlessly, Balthazar slipped into the most refreshing slumber he had ever had. His eyes remained glued shut even through the sunrise of the following morning.<p>

* * *

><p>Hermione was not entirely sure how she felt about destiny. Harry Potter's destiny had been to destroy Lord Voldemort, and because of that, he had experienced more turmoil in his first seventeen years of life than most people ever do in a lifetime. She had often felt like her destiny was to be an assistant of sorts to Harry, to help him when he could not help himself, to be his little bookworm because he was too busy dealing with all of the action to study up on spells and potions.<p>

Clearly, she was wrong. Her destiny was far more predetermined than she'd ever imagined. After spending seven years wondering what else could possibly happen that would surprise her or catch her off guard, she was looking forward to finally having some time to relax and enjoy her newfound freedom.

And then this happened.

For such a clever girl, she really should have known that it was too good to be true. A perfect job teaching Potions at Hogwarts, a perfect friendship with her two best friends, a perfect life created from the misery that was her teenage years? It was impossible to think that things could have been so perfect without some catch, and yet, she had let herself think that there was no seeable end to her new bliss. And of course, this time it was her turn, not Harry's. Perhaps that was one good thing about this entire situation; Harry would finally catch his break, while Hermione would be chucked into the past to complete a mission she really had no idea how to even begin.

While she was discussing the mechanics with Balthazar, Hermione tried very, very hard not to cry. What was she supposed to tell Harry and Ron, and Ginny? There were no explanations possible for her endless time of leave as she ventured into the forties. She had eventually decided to write them a letter, and she made it short, sweet, and to the point – _I'm sorry, but I have no choice. I have to leave, and I have no idea how long I may be gone, or if I can ever return. I love you, with all my heart, and I do hope you can continue without your favorite know-it-all._

It was vague, but what else could she tell them? If she ever ran into them later on, she could tell them the truth. She didn't, however, want to worry them with the context of her mission. They did not deserve to worry.

Hermione sighed loudly, and stared at the purple vial in front of her. According to Balthazar, this was a potion of his own concoction, one that was unknown to the wizarding world because he had received the instructions for it from the Founders. He had not even let Hermione known what he was brewing until it was ready, but as she stared at it now, and smelled the cherry aroma, she let out another sob. Life was never going to be fair to her, was it?

She moved the vial slightly to the left to avoid a tear falling inside and potentially ruining the concoction, and she recalled the last conversation she had had with Balthazar.

"_Balthazar, do you recall ever running into me back in the forties?"_

_"No, Hermione, I do not."_

_"Doesn't that mean that this never happened? Or that it won' change anything?"_

_He had placed a comforting, fatherly hand on her shoulder, the crinkles in his eyes turning upward as he smiled a profoundly sad but profoundly admiring smile. "No, Hermione. It simply means that you are going to change history this time around. You're going to make a difference."_

She downed the entire purple potion and closed her eyes.

* * *

><p><em>Did it work?<em> Hermione asked herself. She felt a hard landing and then the aftereffects of the fall.

She was in pain, but it wasn't positively unbearable. It was sort of a combination of a large migraine and a minor car crash kind of pain. Her body was sore, but not numb or burning. Though she was mildly incapacitated from her fall, and clearly inside of Hogwarts' hallways without any identifiable figures around her, she figured that her condition was not serious enough to visit the Hospital Wing. She didn't know who the matron in this time was, and she didn't want to be questioned for three hours. However, she did look a fright, as her hair was wildly pointed in various directions and there was some blood on her blouse from the fresh cut on her arm, and she quickly straightened herself.

As she walked around with no real destination, she idly examined the Hogwarts of this new – well, old – era. Obviously, fifty or so years was not going to be much of a drastic change in a thousand-year-old castle, but she thought it was interesting how some of the portraits were missing, and how unrecognizable ones replaced them.

Hermione wasn't very sure what she wanted to do. Did she want to resume life as normally as she possibly could and become a student, despite her age? No, definitely not. While she looked young enough to pull it off, even Hermione didn't want to deal with anymore years of schooling inside the castle. Did she want to leave the Hogwarts castle and work in Hogsmeade or something? No matter what she decided to do, she knew that she would have to encounter some old familiar faces and she still wasn't sure if she was completely ready for that, despite Balthazar's heads-up. Seeing anyone she recognized – especially Dumbledore – was going to be very difficult.

Hermione wasn't even sure if she was _allowed_ to tell Dumbledore where she was from. She knew she would have Balthazar – Professor Binns – to rely on at least a little bit, but being around Dumbledore would make her want to reenact their previous bond. Obviously she could trust him in this time, but that wasn't the point. The timeline would be totally screwed over if she divulged anything… but then again, that was what she was aiming for. She figured that the timeline really couldn't get much worse than it was when she left.

Hermione wondered exactly what her plans were. Whether or not she became a student, she would have to do something about Tom Riddle. She wasn't sure if she should just go right up to him and give him a nice Avada. That probably wouldn't go over well, especially since she didn't really have a ready way to return home. Would her status as a _Absentis Amoveo_ end and she would return to the future immediately following? Would she go to Azkaban for murder? Would she die because her mission was finished, like what had happened to Balthazar? She knew that befriending him and then deceiving him was out of the question; she would not manage a civil moment with him. She did want to simply kill him when he was least expecting it, and for that, she planned to stay in the shadows. The less she was noticed by him, the better. She did _not_ want to be singled out by the man that was capable of so much, not when she had a mission to accomplish.

"Aren't you supposed to be in class right now?"

Hermione whipped around and came face-to-face with someone she found very handsome. Looks mattered not to her though, for she knew that looks were deceiving. She sized up this boy and stared at him unwaveringly.

"I could ask you the same."

He looked taken aback at her answer and seemingly just the fact that she did not look his precise age as she turned around to face him. He took less than a beat to regain his composure, however, and raised a well-rounded, dark brow.

"I, for one, am Head Boy. I also currently have a specific hall pass that enables me to go to the library during this period to retrieve a book for a professor that needs it for his class. Therefore, I have valid reasons to be out of my class. However, you're clearly not even a student, so I am now even more suspicious of your intentions. Perhaps I should take you to the Headmaster." He looked smugly at her and she had an inkling that she already knew who this boy was. The deceiving looks, the unimaginable wit, the cold expression and voice, and the strict answer to everything were a few giveaways.

"I've actually just left Headmaster Dippet's office," she lied smoothly, trying not to wince at how naturally the retort came to her. She leaned casually against the wall, her bushy hair crushing against the stone.

"Then I would be more than happy to escort you to the Entrance Hall, where you can leave the premises," he replied as plainly as he could. His raised brow had lowered and he seemed to be thoroughly annoyed; Hermione was torn between enjoying his discomfort and trying to get as far away as she could.

"That is quite kind of you, but I would actually like to see Professor Dumbledore," she decided on a whim, trying to keep her tone polite. It would not do to lash out now.

"Professor Dumbledore has a class right now," he replied simply. "I am actually headed in that direction now. I can escort you there while you wait for his class to be dismissed."

Hermione did not know why he was so insistent upon escorting her around the castle; she supposed he just wanted a good look at her, to study her, to try and read her, to gauge her movements. With a sigh, she realized she had no other option. If she was forced to leave Hogwarts already, she might never get another opportunity to come back in. "Yes, that would be lovely, thank you."

As they walked, Hermione could feel the awkward tension in the air, and tried very hard not to fiddle with her skirt or show any other outward signs of discomfort, not even when he broke the silence and addressed her. "What's your name?" he asked her, never once gaining any kindness in his voice. It stayed cool and stiff, the way that he always seemed to be.

"It doesn't matter what my name is," she said. "I won't be staying long. You, however… you're Head Boy, you said. That makes your name Riddle, right? I think I read about you in the paper back in September, when they announced the Heads."

Was it believable? She had skillfully avoided giving away any detrimental information and managed to sound informed, all while providing a subtle jab in the face because she knew enough about him to know that he despised his surname. Hermione only hoped that it wasn't near enough to September to make her lie sound odd. In fact, she had no idea what date it was, nor did she know what she was going to say to Dumbledore when she arrived in his office.

"Yes," he said coolly, as though he was perfectly fine with being addressed in such a way. "Tom Riddle."

"It's a pleasure," she lied once more, before increasing her pace in order to reach Dumbledore's classroom sooner.

* * *

><p>"To what do I owe the pleasure of such a lovely young lady?"<p>

Albus Dumbledore's voice, very much alive and healthy, caught Hermione by surprise, and when she snapped her head in his direction, she choked at the normality of his right hand, of his auburn hair, of his moon-shaped spectacles.

When Hermione and Tom had reached the classroom, he authoritatively told her to wait outside and he would alert Dumbledore to the presence of an "anonymous woman." Hermione had tried to organize her thoughts, had tried to think clearly and let her infamously rational mind take heed over her actions, but no matter what she did, she could not shake her nerves.

_You must kill Tom Riddle._ That had been Balthazar's message to her, the burden he unwillingly placed upon her shoulders. If that had been so, she didn't know why she couldn't have been shipped to a time where he was a young boy, where he had done nothing wrong and where he had no opportunity to do anything wrong; but Hermione quickly reasoned that she'd not have the heart to kill such an innocent creature as Tom Riddle in his childhood form. Hell, she wasn't sure if she could do it now. Her fingers still tingled with remorse when she recalled who she had murdered in the Battle of Hogwarts.

Dumbledore cleared his throat pointedly, looking down at her through those spectacles as he awaited an answer. Hermione knew that Dumbledore was a kind and patient man, but she was, after all, a strange woman in a castle that he held very dearly, a castle that he was mighty protective over.

"My name is Hermione," she began, feeling tentative but proud of herself for not sounding so. If she could Polyjuice herself to become Bellatrix Lestrange, she could do this. "What did Tom tell you?"

If he had been surprised by her question, he did not acknowledge it. "He mentioned that he had come across a woman who did not look like a student, and I see here that you are not. You said you had seen the Headmaster, but I haven't heard anything from Armando regarding a mysterious woman in our castle." Here, his voice darkened slightly, as though he wanted to believe she was harmless but could not quite quell the stern protectiveness he felt over the castle.

"I understand your concern, Professor," she said, almost faltering and calling him Headmaster. "With Grindelwald rampaging around Europe, it is difficult to tell who can and cannot be trusted." She took a breath, noting that Dumbledore did not even flinch at the mention of his old friend. Clearly, he was a fine actor as well. "As I've said, my name is Hermione. Hermione Perks. I'm twenty years old as of last September. I came in hopes of a teaching vacancy."

"There is no available teaching vacancy, Miss Perks." Despite the finality of his statement, it was not said unkindly.

Hermione sighed. How much did she want to reveal to Dumbledore? Balthazar had never specified what she could and couldn't reveal, but Hermione knew how time worked. She also knew that Dumbledore had an uncanny knack for being aware of things that people did not want him to be aware of. She avoided his eyes.

"Sir, I have not spoken to Headmaster Dippet. Nor have I spoken to anyone really, besides Tom Riddle and yourself, since I arrived in the castle. And to be quite frank, I did not enter through the gates or set off the wards with my arrival, and I did not come in here in search of a teaching position."

"Do I need to have you arrested?"

The question came so abruptly that Hermione felt like laughing and crying at the same time. If only he knew, if only he was aware of her intentions, perhaps he would have her arrested. _I have come here to kill a student, Professor,_ she would say. And he would bind her and send her to Azkaban before she could ever utter another syllable.

"No, I don't think you do. I suppose all I can say is that I would like permission to do research here at Hogwarts. I'm sure I've already botched up your first impression of me, but I swear that I'm not untrustworthy. Oh, how rich that must sound," she added bitterly, nearly choking on tears now. This was why Hermione Granger did not improvise, this was why Hermione Granger planned things in advance. Because if she did not, she royally ruined her own opportunities to succeed.

"I believe that would be Headmaster Dippet's decision to make, Miss Perks, and not my own."

Hermione recognized the dismissal. She inclined her head, let a single tear fall from her cheek, and left Professor Dumbledore staring at the back of her head.

* * *

><p>An hour or so passed, and Hermione had not accomplished anything productive. How could she face the Headmaster after the disaster she had experienced with Dumbledore? He was surely suspicious of her now, and because Armando Dippet was putty in the hands of many people, Dumbledore and Tom Riddle included, Hermione knew she didn't stand a chance. She would get booted from the school, and that would be that. She didn't even have any records on file, no birth certificate, no marks from school, nothing to prove that she even existed. If she so much as breathed in Hogwarts castle, the Ministry would know something was fishy. Life did extend outside of the school, and Hermione did not have a life in this time.<p>

She meandered through the second-floor corridor and passed a door that looked strangely familiar. She stopped, and turned toward it, eying it shrewdly.

Of course.

Hermione did not bother to knock, a detail that she discarded because she could not worry about politeness right now. "Professor Binns?" she called out as she closed the door behind her. The room was empty; there were no students, there was no pearly white ghost, and there certainly was no corporeal silhouette that she could identify as Balthazar.

"Who is there?" came his monotonous drone, and Hermione saw the ghost whizzing slowly down the stairs from his office, floating above them as though they were simply a waste of space.

"It's Hermione, Balthazar."

At once, he stopped whizzing and looked at her, with a furrow in his brows as he looked her over. "I haven't seen you before, Hermione. How do you know me?"

This was, of course, frustrating, but Hermione simply uttered two words. "_Absentis Amoveo__, Balthazar. I have to complete a mission that you passed onto me in the year two thousand."_

_"Two thousand," he mused quietly, floating closer to her. "I do live a terribly long time." As it was the forties, Hermione could imagine how far away the year two thousand seemed. Hell, being from the year two thousand, being in the forties made her feel incredibly disoriented._

"I don't know exactly how to adapt to this situation," she confessed, because she knew that he would believe her tale. He was, after all, an _Absentis Amoveo_ himself. It was not just something that was common knowledge; you really had to be one, to know one. "I have no records on file in the Ministry. I am too old to be a student here. I need to be within close contact of Tom Riddle, and I'm not quite sure how to pull that off when I don't exist here."

Balthazar smiled a misty, silvery smile. "You don't need a record, Hermione," he said cryptically, reminding her far too much of Dumbledore. "You simply need an alibi."

* * *

><p>Hope you all like it so far! My last TomHermione was written four years ago so I really like to think I've improved so far with this one. Please review, they are what urge me to write and post faster!


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